


Dreamworld

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Sometimes Crowley finds it hard to cope. When he gets a bit too drunk one night, Aziraphale is there to pick up the pieces.





	Dreamworld

A demon doesn’t need sleep.

Crowley still sleeps occasionally. Because it’s calm and peaceful. Because, buried in sleep, he neither feels boredom nor irritation. But essentially, he sleeps for the dreams.

In dreams, pictures which his conscious demonic mind can’t imagine come together to form a dreamworld lulling him into a state that feels almost like … satisfaction. A state he hasn’t been able to reach in 6000 years. It’s a world in which he doesn’t carry around his baggage of memories or vaguely feels like he’s leading a stranger’s life. A world in which he doesn’t feel like he’s breaking the law for sitting in a restaurant, watching an angel devouring his cake. Crowley offered Aziraphale to get off together twice. This is how it would look like; he supposes. Just the two of them, because he can’t stand anyone else, somewhere in a lonely silent corner of the universe.

It is admittedly a pleasant picture. One he keeps for himself, of course.  

Crowley would sleep much more often, if it wasn’t for the occasional nightmares his mind sends him. They seem like a persistent reminder. A postcard from the depths of hell. _Remember you’re fallen. Remember you’re a demon. Remember, you don’t deserve even a small beam of light._ _Or the friendship of a divine being._

He dreams of the pain of falling through the eternal flames. He’s burning, screaming into the void unheard, feeling his skin peeling off and his wings being torn apart, the white feathers floating around him, stained with ash. There is no collision. In his nightmares, he falls endlessly, damned to feel eternal regret. Because, Crowley _really_ didn’t want to fall.

He wakes up in his chair with a gasp, glad no one is around to see him like this: dishevelled, sweaty, panting – a glorious ridiculous mess of a damn shame of a demon, surrounded by silent plants. Pathetic. 

And although he should know better, he tries it again. And again. Because something inside him craves the world he can’t have. A part of him wants to live the illusion. He hates that he is like that. That he is some kind of broken creature now, not able to function like everyone else of his kind down in hell. He hates himself. He tries to hate Aziraphale too. But it is in vain. Because every time he pictures the angel’s broad smile, his anger turns to something else. Feels like he’s burning again, but this time, it’s a softer, kinder fire. It does hurt, yet it also warms his insides.

Crowley doesn’t know what to do with that. Or with himself.

Sometimes, he starts to drink.

Being drunk is not the worst. The alcohol numbs the fire and silences the thoughts. They become an incoherent mess and he’s able to drift off, thinking about nothing and everything without the usual self-loathing and loathing in general pestering his mind. Eventually, he gets rid of the alcohol because he doesn’t want to be sick in the morning, and everything comes back in a rush, making him moan and flop into his chair, pressing his thumbs against his temples.

But one night, it’s different. He downs a whole bottle of something – he didn’t care to read the label – and somehow it sets his mind on fire. He doesn’t get melancholic, nor thoughtful – he gets _angry_. Today Hastur paid him one of his unfortunate occasional visits, reminding Crowley of his role in all of this.

_We’re the Fallen, Crowley. Never forget that. We’re going to win the last battle. Follow the great plan.  
Or you’re toast. _

Bloody great plan. Crowley doesn’t want a battle. It’s pointless. Why fighting when you can enjoy the countless pleasures of this century? Never has earth been more entertaining than now. There is everything you can think of. Food, beverage, cinema, theatre, _music_. Not to speak of the various online games. Crowley didn’t even get to play Fortnite yet  and the whole of hell wants him to fight in a stupid war that will end everything of this? A war that will put him on opposite side of his best friend?

So Crowley gets drunk and he gets angry, screaming at his plants about the unfairness. They don’t care. They are plants. And he gets angry about that too, stumbling out of his flat, taking the road to nowhere.

The world is a blur and he doesn’t know where he is. There’s a bench and he sits on it, swaying while trying to pour more alcohol down his throat. Only, there isn’t more. The bottle is empty. “Bastard!” He yells at it, blinking repeatedly as the world spins around him.

Later, Crowley doesn’t understand where he even came from, but suddenly, Aziraphale crouches in front of him. The angel is a blurry mosaic of colours and for a moment, Crowley isn’t even sure he’s really there. 

“Crowley, what are you doing out here in the middle of the night? You aren’t carrying your glasses!” Aziraphale says, sounding worried and confused.

Crowley shrugs. What does he care if someone sees his snake-like eyes. They are his bloody eyes. This is what he is. A monster.

“Look at you. Why don’t you get rid of the alcohol? Why would you do this to you!”

“Makes me forget,” Crowley murmurs, dropping the useless bottle. It shatters on the ground and Aziraphale flinches. “Makes you forget what?” The angel asks bewildered.

Crowley bends forward. The endless spinning makes him feel nauseous. “That I’m rotting. Rotting from the inside. I can smell it, it’s disgusting.”

Aziraphale stares at him, his mouth open. _He’s speechless_ , Crowley thinks gleefully. _Ha. I made the angel speechless for once._

The angel. Yes. Aziraphale is an angel. And Crowley … Crowley is a demon. They’re supposed to hate each other. They’re supposed to crave each other’s violent death or something. The concerned frown shouldn’t be on Aziraphale’s face. There shouldn’t be that strange soft glimmer in his wide open eyes. And most of all, Crowley shouldn’t feel ashamed that Aziraphale sees him like this. So … so pathetic.

He drops his head and murmurs, “Fuck off, angel.” _Go. Leave me alone. Don’t make me suffer even more than I already do for that I don’t seem to be able to function properly since we are doing whatever it is we do.  
_

But Aziraphale only sighs. “Well. No. I won’t leave you. You can’t stay here. Let me help you …” He reaches for Crowley’s arm, but Crowley flinches back as if he’d been burned, as if Aziraphale is a fire, his flames made of holy water, and hisses, ““No! Stay away from me! Stay back!”

Aziraphale clears his throat nervously. “Now now, You shouldn’t shout, people will notice –“

“Fuck people! Fuck humanity! Fuck the world! Fuck _you_!” Crowley yells, trying to get up. But everything spins around him again – or is it him who’s spinning? – and he tumbles over, his knees hitting hard concrete. It actually _hurts_. He hates that it hurts. He punches the stupid throbbing knee with a fist and growls when his head seems to explode. He raises his fist to punch his bloody head too.

But Aziraphale catches his wrist, his hand is warm and soft, yet his grip is firm. “Stop that,” he says.

“Let go!” Crowley struggles. Aziraphale’s touch makes his skin prickle. “Let go, you bloody pigeon!”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Come on now. I’ll get you to my place. Just … till this is over,” he says quietly and Crowley gives up. He is exhausted. And tired. And he damn well doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Aziraphale pulls him up and throws one of Crowley’s arm over his shoulder, supporting a lot of the demon’s weight. “I’m going to … to shorten the process. Lets just hope no one minds another little miracle.” Aziraphale chuckles nervously and the next moment, they’re encased by white light.

Crowley closes his eyes because the light is blinding him. When he opens them again, they are somewhere else. He is aware of something soft and warm under him and realizes, that he is laying in a bed.

“You can rest now.” Aziraphale. His voice still sounds worried. Why … why does he even care.

“I wish I’d never met you,” Crowley murmurs, pressing his heavy throbbing head into a soft pillow.

“No…you don’t mean that,” Aziraphale says from somewhere beside him and - later, Crowley won’t know if this was imagination or reality either -  runs a careful hand through Crowley’s hair just once, the touch featherlight and yet so comforting, it almost _burns_.

***

When Crowley wakes up, he has an aching headache and doesn’t know what’s going on for a moment, until he remembers. Oh. Yeah. Alcohol. Way too much alcohol. He concentrates for a moment and immediately feels better, calling himself a stupid idiot.

He takes a look around and realizes he’s not in his flat. Instead, he’s in Aziraphale’s bed surrounded by heaps of dusty books, white half-burnt candles and spiderwebs.

Oh crap. What did he do? Did he really have a bloody mental breakdown in front of an angel?

“You should take a bath in holy water, you moron,” he tells himself. When he gets up from the shockingly comfortable bed, he discovers his glasses on the nightstand. He stares at them for a moment, feeling bewildered.

The next moment, there is a hesitant knock on the doorframe. Crowley looks up and sees Aziraphale standing there, a nervous little smile on his face. “Well, good morning Crowley. I hope you’re feeling better now.”

Crowley clears his throat. “Yes. Well. Uh. About last night …”

Aziraphale looks aside. “We don’t have to talk about it.

“Hm. Right.”

“But … please don’t call me a pigeon again.”

“Okay.”

“Tea?”

“Tea.”

***

  
It’s raining cats and dogs when they’re sitting in their usual little café. The sky is grey velvet. The raindrops are beating against the windows in a steady monotonous rhythm. Crowley watches Aziraphale eating a piece of cake with the expression of pure pleasure in his half-closed eyes and feels guilty. Of course.

Crowley sips his tea and thinks of last night, shuddering inwardly. He was being pathetic. If Hastur would ever learn about this … _Satan_. He is such an useless demon, he can’t believe they didn't - like Hastur likes to phrase it - toast him a long time ago. Maybe he should just toast himself.

He notices Aziraphale staring at him, like the angel is reading his thoughts and starts to feel uncomfortable. “What, angel?” He asks annoyed.

Aziraphale hums and glances back down at his fork, drawing a slow line through the whipped cream on the plate. “Nothing. Just … It’s alright if you … don’t try so hard to be a demon all the time, you know? It’s alright if you relax from time to time. Like I do. Maybe something solid would help. Something distracting. For distinguishing between job and private life, you know? I have my bookshop. You could have … a floral shop?” He looks up at Crowley with an encouraging smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel,” Crowley murmurs, glad for the glasses covering his eyes. Because he’s quite sure they’re reflecting his state of mind: A jumbled mess of unwanted annoying emotions he shouldn’t be experiencing. “No one would buy my plants.”

“Well, I would,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s breath falters. He stares at the smile on Aziraphale’s face and doesn’t understand.

What is it about Aziraphale that makes him … special? Why can’t he feel the same indifference for him that he feels for other living beings?

He shouldn’t feel as comfortable as he does around the angel.

That shadow-smile shouldn’t linger in the corners of his mouth, when Aziraphale rambles about something in his stupid books, his eyes sparkling and his fingers gesticulating in the air.  

He shouldn’t go and get the book for himself, so he can read the same words, feeling like he’s following Aziraphale into another kind of dreamworld.

He shouldn’t have the taste of dry ash in his mouth while repeating the mantra he’s got used to over all these centuries. I’m a demon. I’m the Fallen. I’m evil. Evil, rotten, deranged, _evil_.

He shouldn’t feel the terrifying combination of anger, confusion and relief, when Aziraphale looks at him, saying something like “You’re actually quite nice.”

But he does.

And something’s telling him, this is why everything is going to end in the burning hell of a disaster.

For some reason, Aziraphale cares about Crowley and Crowley cares about Aziraphale. And that’s terrifying.

Crowley watches Aziraphale devouring a piece of cake, the angel’s eyes half-closed in pleasure, glares at those rosy lips and fine eyelashes, grips at his own knee and considers asking Aziraphale to leave together with him for another time.  

  
After all, living in a dream is not enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


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